Blaze of Glory
by Thyme In Her Eyes
Summary: After Medea dies, her soul travels to the Underworld to recieve judgement for the crimes of her life...


Blaze of Glory  
  
  
  
By CrimsonFuchsia  
  
Author's Note: Based on the myth of Jason and the Argonauts, focusing on the character of Medea. When Medea dies, her soul travels to the Underworld to receive judgement for her life. I've used both the myth and Euripides' play 'Medea' for research for this project. I know someone may point out that I haven't described how exactly Medea died, but this is intentional. Another technicality: According to the version of the legend I read, the Gods really did come to this conclusion of how to deal with Medea. Also, I'd like to thank all my loyal reviewers from my previous Mythology fanfics and poems (you wonderful examples of humanity all know who your are ::wink::), I love you guys!  
  
Blaze of Glory  
  
At her long-awaited moment of death, she slammed her eyelids shut with relief a final demonstration of defiance and power - not to die in a womanly fashion, a helpless waif or as featureless traitor, to be gawked at by strangers and robbed of dignity. The irises adorning the window to her soul had not withered and decayed in their brilliance by the hand of age, but still shone with dangerously intense black fire. Still, her eyes remained ever young and powerful, deadly passion, despair, furious love and violence in the glittering onyx gems of her eyes, smouldering with unrealised intelligence. They betrayed great beauty; both driven and haunted by the intensity of her feelings though men would sooner fall upon their swords than risk drowning in the murky depths of those inky-black pools to join the multitude of grey corpses given death by her own slender hand.  
  
She had lived a great life and had died a death just as great. She had fallen in turbulent glory, potent and powerful, unlike so many others grown ancient and wise with the years. Unlike others who simply faded more and more with each passing day, slipping further into darkness and obscurity until it was impossible to notice their departure for they had seemed so very far away and rotting before and were now still tangible. It was impossible to discover that golden moment in which these grey characters slipped unknowingly into the past.  
  
But now, the death is her own, her midnight eyes touched by twilight's caress and now hidden by the pale skin of her eyelids and the silky smooth cluster of raven feathers that made up her long lashes. The memory of how she passed away into this transient, forgetful state escaped her as she succumbed to losing herself within the thick forests of this dream-like state, both sharply surreal and vivid. Was this the state between life and death so many young maidens and nymphs had been condemned to for refusing the lusts of Gods and transformed into trees, lips to leaves and bone to bark?  
  
All she knew was of the withered old hand clasping her own, ancient and sagging like the decaying skin of a rotten fruit, guiding her gently forward, the rest of its body but shadows and dust. When others had screamed and flailed out with violent hearts in confusion and terror, Medea remained still, allowing her morbid companion to pull her further through the featureless fog, suppressing her terrifyingly passionate nature in favour of the coldly calculated side of her temperament. Empowered by intellect and reason, she recognised her guide as Thanatos; death incarnate, whose duty was to escort her from the mortal world to the Underworld. She was not being escorted into the magical domain of Morpheus but to the dark and solemn realm of Hades.  
  
Again, where others would have quailed in horror at this revelation and attempted to pull away from the icy grip of their captor, Medea's own common sense told her this was simply not possible. She resigned herself and allowed her death to escort her to her destination, humbly paying him the respect due, her mind racing ahead behind her blazing black eyes. Her passions rose within her once more, blooming within a heart forever angry and bitter, before withering into an equally familiar melancholy, without care for the life she had now abandoned. A life filled with bitterness and regret. At least she had died proudly and with dignity. A whisper of satisfaction glimmered in brilliant eyes, dark without coldness, as she mused to herself that at least this was one duty that men and women bore equally, one task that must befall both sexes. That in death, at least there was a sense of equality. The equality denied her - and all women of her time - in life. Fear was just as potent within the male and female soul and could make them all cowards but still, where some foolish and fearful men had trembled and cried like children, women had the chance to show courage and honour at last.  
  
A small corner, thick with the dust, shadows and cobwebs of the idealism and passionate anger at inequality that dominated her youth smiled brightly, becoming alight and golden with the knowledge that in front of the Gods, all were equal. Then, the emotion was banished once more into solitude and decay as she stilled herself. How childish of her to still consider such trivial things! And after all her experiences in life! Instead of submitting and living in the subordination of marriage and duties to her husband and children, her life had become a battle of the sexes in which all emerged scarred. Yet her passion and anger the injustice was ever-present, even with such tired melancholy of her final days. In the end, they were all but children.  
  
A pain weighed heavily upon her at her turn of thoughts. Her children! Her dear little ones, given to the gentle, cool grip of Thanatos' guiding embrace by their own mother. A sorrow welled up in a regretful, secretive and lonely part of her, longing for her loved ones once more, lodging bitterly in her throat. A sigh escaped her perfectly formed wine-red lips, laced with a pained breath. Her revenge had been total but it had cost her everything. But she had never dwelled upon the sorrows lost to the past and hurled the awkward thing far away from her in disgust. She missed her children with a fierce desperation, longing for nothing more than to hold them tightly to her heart in a crushing maternal embrace, to stroke their limp, dark curls and inhale deeply of their soft scent. Just to remember that they truly once were and were more than a ghost of some fantastical dream in which she once had a loving family and was happy. A vast tumble of powerful feeling spilled upwards, from the soles of her small, smooth feet where she had placed her guilt and morality, up to her heart where the fire of emotion began to rekindle and smoulder once more with bitter pain, up to her throat in a violent choking back of a faint, mournful sound, past her eyes as dark as coal but alight with intellect, avoiding tears, before taking root in her mind, where her cunning revenge was first conceived and where the memories of joyful times lay lost somewhere in the great dusty stone turrets of the labyrinth of her mind.  
  
With awkward roughness of guilty vigour, she pushed past such thoughts; she had what she desired. Revenge. Besides, allies of Creon would have surely slew her sons anyway to avenge their fallen friend, the foolish king, murdered more by his own stupidity, blindness and hypocrisy. And then there was Jason. . . The murder of her children had hurt Jason deeply she knew, remembering with glee and sadness the look of utter despair on his face as it broke to angry, grieving tears, realising that his children were murdered by a woman he had ruined and twisted by his faithlessness. His eyes, the large, warm eyes, the colour of fresh soil on a harvest day, eyes she had fallen in love with, screamed of betrayal and agony. Yes, she had avenged herself, she thought silently. He had used her and discarded her, not caring for all the great sacrifices she had to make for him.  
  
Still haunted by a faded sense of waste and her decision to follow the violent course of her furious rage, as potent as any poison and as deadly as any weapon, ready for the kill and already soaked in blood, over choosing reason and mercy. The very thought almost caused her to trip in her journey with dread Thanatos from the last, lingering clutches of mortality and into the next world. Reason! Her sharp mind was set alight with disgust. Mercy! For those who had shown no mercy to her? Why should she treat them with restraint and morality when they had brought her nothing but torment and misery? King Creon, fearing for his own safety chose to cast her out into the agonising shame and utter despair and loneliness of exile, to forever wander alone and without home nor realm to peacefully abide within. And with two young children, barely taken away from her breast! He had underestimated her power and for that he deserved all that came upon him by allowing her to remain one day. How was this filthy example of royalty - whose greed for further fame and admiration from the public moved him to offer his shallow, proud daughter to Jason, the conquering hero and champion of the Golden Fleece (forgetting how essential she, Medea a fair maiden well-versed in magical arts, had been to this voyage of discovery), and so beginning the beginning of her own suffering and loss, worthy of her mercy? And a silly, immature daughter to such a king, the one whose shallow beauty stole Jason - how was she deserving of safety from Medea's scorching wrath?  
  
Yes, she had hurt enemies as well as friends, she had played on all their weaknesses. An ally and companion she has found in Aegeus but had used his pity for her situation, soft-heartedness to win further favour and sympathy and made herself invaluable to him by offering her arcane skills as a powerful sorceress to cure him of his childlessness, his one fatal vulnerable spot. Yes, she had used her immoral talent against a friend to, manipulating his weak spots to win a binding oath from him, one he was obliged to keep by all laws of man and Gods, no matter what her actions. The only innocents that suffered were her dear sons - so young and brave and beautiful creatures, wild and innocent. Her hate for Jason had cost her so much, she mused sadly.  
  
And Jason! Jason, whom she had love with a burning passion and enduring affection. Jason, whom she would have been willing to give up her life for, if it would mean his own being spared. Jason, for whom she had shed the blood of her kin. Jason, over whom she had shed love's tears. Jason, for whom she had endangered her very soul for the sake of his success. Jason, the companion of her discourse and ideas. Jason, the object - and means of achieving - her dreams. Jason, the only one she loved and longed for with every shred of her being, every beat of her passionate heart. Jason, whose happiness she was willing to purchase in blood and suffering. Jason, whose own happiness meant her own. Jason. Her world.  
  
Jason, who betrayed her. Jason, who used her. Jason, who forsook her for a mindless, shallow princess. Jason, who was nothing more than a shallow parody of a hero. Jason, forever blinded by his pride and need for dominance. Jason, whose ears were deaf to her anger, tales of injustice and pleas. Jason, whose delight and gratification at her manipulative act of a submissive, fawning woman made her sick with rage and disgust. Jason, devoid of the powers of an astute mind. Jason, whose willingness to be fooled by his own fantasies were his undoing.  
  
A bitter flare of fury expanded and exploded within her heart, scorching it raw, to ash with love's wound, screaming with hate and sorrow as her feelings for him were becoming woven together from the thin threads of her surfacing memory. The memories of heartbreak and devastation followed by revenge and bloodlust she had forever tried to erase from her being, to push down far within her soul, to drown in all other riches of her essence her mind, heart and spirit had to offer. But still she remembered. In moments of melancholy and the thick, dark waters of her dreams. Yes, she recalled her dreams, dreams in which he still appeared. Treading thin ice over deep water. She had wished his young bride dead, wished to kill him in vengeance and even to kill herself at times, she recalled with a nostalgia that boarded on amusing had it not been so overwhelmingly filled with deep depression.  
  
Jason, whom she had loved profoundly once. Jason, still loved by an obscure part of her. She knew he was for her, to be her great love and she his, but if only it could be without the hate and betrayal! If only things had somehow been different!  
  
Her intellect was one of great resources, so with very little effort she won the battle against that treacherous feeling and cut it down, hacking each part away with the thrill of rage's passion and the darkness that weighed heavily upon her. Just as she had struck down her own brother. Jason was the only one she should have married, that was true, but it did not mean she need dwell on what should have been. Jason was without respect, without love and filled only with his own fickle desires and his own sightless, narrow arrogance. This was the true man behind the handsome, loyal, valiant, exiting, noble, adventurous, thoughtful, courageous and insightful hero she had first met. Her ivory cheeks, touched only by the pale beauty of a young rosebud threatened to flare a deep scarlet at the shame of falling in love with a man who could be described in a single sentence. How blind she had been, now innocent once! With a heart so tender and open to love never shown by an indifferent family. How she had loved him so dearly, without restraint and without ulterior desires.  
  
And how he had loved and needed her love! Once. . . He had wished to enchant her, enchain her, posses her! How they had both worshipped each other with a grand passion verging on madness in those burning youthful days without reason or sense. How they longed to be the heart and soul of one another, how they had driven each other to paradise and despair over their love.  
  
But those days were dead, lost to the snatching, cruel hands of time and forever tainted by the knowledge that his love was not as strong and earth- moving as she had thought. She was, as she had always been, terrifyingly free. But though the memories could still alight her heart with a lingering sorrow, it was nothing against the force of her fury. She still raged with his treachery, his patronising pride and his destruction of her notions of what they meant to one another. He who placed sense and his own security over his wife, ignorant of all she had given up for him, ignorant to how fiercely and tenderly she had loved him! How she had longed to spill his blood then! But now there was nothing. She had her satisfaction. Her revenge was total and she saw how it devoured him with loss and misery. She had also foresaw his death, not a great hero's death but the humiliating death of the coward he was. It was the most complete revenge and she was proud, too proud and filled with peace at her actions to still feel the sheer, destructive energy of her anger, there was not life enough for tormented, conflicted feelings. He was dead within her now. As dead as she was.  
  
At her turn of thoughts, the mist of colours, memories and emotions dissolved into liquid darkness, its inky depths spilling over her, all she could breathe, drenching her in the darkness of death. The limbo of memory was over. The waters of decay vanished as swiftly as they had consumed her and she found herself standing alone without the dreary yet comforting presence of silent and wise Thanatos, in a vast underground domain, spreading onwards with halls of cold, darkness and decay with crushing vastness. As she gazed in awe at the gloomy halls surrounding her; the bone, dust, stone, shadow, the very scent of death, grief and loss flooding her senses, so becoming this lifeless domain she found herself standing within, her midnight gaze following a wide river that echoed of screams of sorrow unlamented and unheard, filled with total misery and the pain it brought. She felt a shudder at the sorrows that reverberated from the walls, its stones black and gleaming, the spirits beside her and the vast river below, its dark soul whispering to her, this lifeless realm seemingly covered in some dark shroud. She felt the awe of mortals at the overwhelming turrets of rot and dust and ancient corridors carved from onyx in beautiful and terrible shapes that could horrify any ripe imagination or destroy any admirer of colour and life. The corridors of shadows playing on stone and avenues of grief sprawled out before her, a twist of death everywhere, becoming a kingdom that embodied that sense of fading into the lonely, cold embrace of nothingness, unnoticed and unmourned that she so resented. Her spirit felt the icy chill around her and her senses brought to despair by the vicious onslaught by the powerful sense of desperate loneliness and loss that became her new world of dread and monotony.  
  
She had reached her most solemn destination - the Underworld. The realm of Lord Hades, his Queen Persephone and all the dead souls. Her brethren now. She felt not as a transient spirit, without life or substance but exactly as she had in her mortal life; of flesh, blood and bone. Though her bones were slowly being picked clean up above, or so she mused.  
  
She gazed down upon herself. She was clothed in delicate material; the rich fabric was diaphanous and delicate, emphasising and dictated by her lovely feminine form, drawing attention to her breasts and hips. Her toga-like gown of thick layers of deep crimson, gleaming of dark wine and blood, both red and black in different lights and a seductively subtle and soft shade of plum purple and the most attractive assets of her ripe body. The fine gown was faintly embroidered at the hem with a simple flower pattern and trimmed with gold. Garnets; jewels of bitter beauty, fire and depth, unlike the shimmering bombast of their blazing ruby cousins adorned it. It was a masterpiece, a gown not unlike many of her own in life, beautiful and ever- complimenting filled with a sense of life and personality of its own, it so became its mistress. With her natural beauty and unabashed wit as sharp and deadly as any gilded dagger, screaming of incredible force of character, Medea was not only a force to be reckoned with but also an entire universe unto itself.  
  
Her natural beauty was surpassed by none but the loveliest of Goddesses, boasting seductive charisma, wit, intellect and all the extremes of emotion. She was both pretty and striking; a rare combination. Her form was tall and straight as an elm and charming and womanly in its attractiveness, appealing to men and envied by women - ripe, lithe, curvaceous and ample in all the most desirable areas, leaving both everything and nothing to the imagination. Her skin was as alabaster, pale and soft as moonlight's caress but healthy and glowing with potential, like an uncoiled spring of pure energy and passion, a tropical storm waiting to break out and rampage at any moment. Her face was long and pale with the hint of poppies in her cheeks with delicate features, excepting her small mouth lined with determination and shaded bloody and red as wild roses. Her nose was thin and graceful in its aquiline beauty, her slender arms and long legs lightly muscled and forehead high. Her eyes were easily a most prominent feature - burning with intensity and gaping with such extreme darkness, shaded as black as midnight and raging with powerful emotions, threatening with dangerous unpredictability, glittering with something twisted and feared as great as her obvious genius and power, bitter in their grief and devastating in their beauty, forever drawing souls into their onyx depths. Her hair, unadorned, left wild and free to tumble down her strong, young shoulders in a black typhoon, just as full of dark destruction as her gleaming eyes. Her hair, long, lustrous and untamed like a cluster of raven feathers, elegant and soft was like a black mane, belonging to a great creature. She was magnificent.  
  
She felt a stray air tug at her and her smouldering eyes crept across the vast kingdom, devoid of life and soul, before her, meeting with the fearsome form of a huge, black, three-headed beast, snarling, barking and making a low, intimidating, guttural growling. Cerberus. Her burning gaze fixed on a few lost souls, terrified of passing such a great monster, unaware that it would not harm the dead but only grant them passage. No pity swelled in her heart and their terror, wondering how long they had been living in such raw fear and loneliness but felt satisfied that they were suffering for their stupidity as they probably never did in life. Her children must have passed here! With proud, powerful steps to rival the approach of a God, courageous without arrogance, she strode forward, her abundant ebony waves caressing her proud shoulders and crimson dress inflaming grey corridors.  
  
She swiftly passed by the majestic three-headed beast; not missing the wise look - almost of recognition, it seemed - the grand and horrifying creature bestowed on her as it allowed her dead spirit to pass. She strode along the bleeding shores of the Styx, her gaze only momentarily passing on the crouching and weeping faceless forms of howling spirits, condemned to forever beg upon the cold bank of the river of sorrows for passage, forever being rebuked at their penniless state with no company apart from their sorrow and the flotsam and jetsam trapped within the dark walls, seeming to sweat bitter tears.  
  
A stealthy grin crossed her lips as she fingered a single gold piece, glittering with the sun's brightness before flickering into the half-light of the Underworld. A life of caution and danger had schooled her to always carry at least one gold piece with her, just in case. With honour and triumph she slipped the coin gratefully into the open palm of Charon - boatman of the Underworld and immortal servant of Hades and Persephone. His eyes, a mere glimmer of amber in the hollow sockets of a face of bones, his skeletal form cloaked in shrouding curls of smoke and his sinews made from shadow. With respect, Medea took his bony hand and climbed into the worn boat and sat down, back and shoulders straight, her face empty and her beautiful mouth and emotionless line. As she sat in silence her eyes gleamed with predatory intellect as she contemplated what lay beyond the stone shores of her destination, her eyes and mind racing with thought and feeling, stony and dark yet glittering like a wolf in heat.  
  
The cold grief of the souls swarming and drowning in the devastating misery of the Styx; river of sorrows, reverberated upwards to the decaying boat, chilling her bones as she looked down absently at the flowing misery below, devoid of any comforting warmth. A similar feeling had crawled its way into the most secretive lair of her heart to poison and rot, underneath the dirt of vengeance, rage and corrosive passion. As her mind wandered and gaze fixed firmly, she began to ponder the fate awaiting her, and not without a degree of self-concern. Was it fear or did the chilling, oppressive air suddenly thicken? Nay, she held up her head with pride and grace, her chin in the air with all her nobility, she would have no fear. She had done what she though necessary and would have no regrets. If the Gods dared challenge the righteousness of her actions and condemn her to an eternity in Tartarus then so be it. At least there would be no regrets. Medea had strength of will and power of character like no other and had no need for fear of quailing before the feet of the rulers of this dread kingdom.  
  
As the old boat neared the lair of Hades, her eyes flickered for a moment in respectful awe - his home was a castle of onyx, majestic and imperious, placed on a solitary island of dark obsidian and surrounded by a mountainous landscape of gold and amazing riches, its brightness a startling contrast to the shadows of the Underworld. Appropriate for the keeper of all wealth as well as Lord of the Dead, Medea mused to herself grimly. Passing by huge rocks of gold with the finest of jewels embedded within its shimmering surfacing, all glittering in mockery, seeming to laugh at her, the boat neared the dock - once again shrouded in darkness.  
  
She briskly left the boat, giving a respectful glance to the festering ferryman, garbed in the macabre scent of death and clothed in shadow, who in turn gave a slow nod of his skeletal head, the amber sparks of his eyes glittering with something Medea could not place. She strode into the castle, servants of shadow seeming to guide her way, and took in the grandeur of all that surrounded her, the castle of Hades and Persephone in all its sombre splendour.  
  
She stopped in front of a large ebony door, engraved with the finest of carvings. However, her thoughts were in the past, blazing with emotion. As all the tumultuous feelings in her violent heart reached a fiery peak, the twin doors of darkness parted for her, inviting, nay, drawing her into the cold main chamber. She strode in, fierce and proud, daring the Gods to challenge her. She was ready for battle. The chamber appeared empty, but she kept her guard and composure, knowing full well that it was not as it seemed.  
  
When she reached the very centre of the room, standing upon a beautiful circular mosaic, a strange sound flowed throughout the entire chamber, thousand whispers, all from her memory, moving through the room, sounding out in unison, like some twisted melody. The mosaic below her feet began to change shape, turn liquid, as if she could walk on water. She made no move, retaining her sense of calm and serenity. The room burst into light and life as a thousand candles surrounding the circular chamber burst into healthy flame, searing her very soul. Yet, from bravery and knowledge that she could not be harmed by all she saw, she made no move where others would cry out or cower in terror.  
  
Still and composed she remained, her mind racing ahead, even as three smoky tendrils rose from the mosaic - blazing with blue flame - one swirling round her slender hands in examination, the other snaking around her generous breasts, just above her heart, seeming to almost reach within her and the third coiling and snapping furiously around her forehead, seeming to pour in and out of her very mind. Each grey spiral of smoke began to burn a dangerous, bloody red and simultaneously they flowed away, converged into one threatening shadow and with one powerful spark split again into three featureless, sexless forms, neither dark nor light. The Judges. Three, like The Fates. Medea did not quail, no show fear in body or spirit at the three imposing forms, gazing into the very core of her being with hollow eyes of stone, every bit as powerful and disarming as Medusa's glare. Medea only glared back with respectful rebellion.  
  
She remained in this state of fearlessness without foolish arrogance and disrespect, even as from the muted clusters of shadow two forms began to appear, seated on majestic thrones. Hades, God of the Dead and his queen, Persephone, Goddess of Spring and Daughter of the Harvest. They were every bit as divine as Medea had been taught in her childhood - the dark Lord of the Underworld a deity of a tall, imposing figure of handsome features; dark and devastating but could easily strike terror into the heart of any man as his very aura seemed to blaze with a solitary darkness, snapping away at all light, great and majestic and fully in his own element. His very eyes, those icy eyes, chilled her with their cold glare. Still, his frightening spirit of shadow seemed to welcome the gentle light aura of the lovely Goddess beside him, whose small, delicate, child-like hand was lovingly clasped in his own.  
  
Persephone, her small, delicate but strong young form clothed in the simple light green robes of nature, spun from the souls and beauty of flowers and plants and adorned not with fine jewels but with frail blossoms, her small feet bare. She was indeed the life and soul of innocence with her gentle face of delicate features and a sweet, unconscious beauty. Beauty unconscious of her ripe young body, the loveliness of a kind and beautiful face, brilliant and shaded eyes of green and tender waves of velvet-soft and nut-brown hair crashing warmly and gently about her shoulders. That small hand lovingly holding that of her immortal husband's, their fingers interwoven.  
  
Medea felt a sudden stab of sadness at the subtle hint of the love they must have felt and suddenly the lonely anger and hate she harboured within her raged, wanting to be released, to have a cruel revenge upon treacherous Jason once more. As she forced this feeling down, knowing that they knew her very thoughts, she found Persephone's sweet, forgiving gaze fix upon her, her eyes the colour of all the vivid green of the meadows of her Sicily filling with a mixture of sympathy and shock. Just as Medea had remained very much in control, not faltering to the raw fear Hades inspired, neither did she falter for the loving, redeeming kindness of Persephone's gaze. But she lifted her chin proudly, a look of courage and acceptance as well as raw, courageous defiance mingled with the respect due to their immortal selves. She was without fear now. She was proud and glorious.  
  
A voice rung out, a voice not belonging to a single figure in the entire chamber, the voice of her late mother, she now realised. It proclaimed proudly, echoing through throughout the grand room "Presented to your wisdom for most careful judgement of her life and quality of her soul my Lord and Lady of the Dead and noble Judges three; Medea, Lady of Sorrows."  
  
Her dead breath caught in her throat. The sound of her mother's voice! Such a sweet sound, not heard to her lonely ears since her early childhood, now such melodious music to her! And to proclaim her Lady of Sorrows. . .no truer a statement there was, surely, she mused with a heavy heart.  
  
The Judges spoke in unison, their voices replicas of each other's, their tone flat "We have weighed her soul and judged it's worth, whether it be good or evil."  
  
The figure on the far right spoke without emotion "Though some of her actions have been legendary in their heroism, I have weighed her hands and their deeds and have found her unworthy. Though chastised in worship to the Gods, they are filthy - soiled in blood, the blood of her kin; brother and son have fallen to her murderous rages. Without the virtues of restraint or morality, they are bathed in betrayal, hate vengeance, selfishness, waste, pride, bitterness, cunning, fear, distrust and manipulation. I see her wretched hands and smell the stench of fresh blood tainting her virtues, twisting what may have been a pure soul. Unlike many mortals with these loathsome traits, she has carried out a bloody action based on each deadly flaw and committed great crimes against the laws of men and Gods. Her bloodstained hands speak to me and declare that she is a child-murdering fiend, a monster consumed by hatred and a devouring lust for revenge. Her hands speak of crimes most foul and deem her unworthy of reward and deserving of eternal punishment and torment."  
  
Had he no pity? No understanding? Medea's sharp mind raged against this crime against her heart - how dare he judge her actions by face value only? Then of course, her temper was restored, realising that this is his responsibility, and to drive her into a fit of rage and pointless violence would only incriminate and blacken her soul further in the eyes of Hades. Through the tumult within her, she did not even flinch on the surface.  
  
The Judge on the far left now spoke, his voice equally cold and hard against all feeling "I have judged her mind and my belief is with my most wise brother when I deem her most unworthy of mercy and divine favour. Her intellect is nothing short of pure genius - raw, resourceful and powerful, her mind as sharp as a steel trap, and her wits her weapon and she is learned and shows great talent in the arcane art of sorcery. Her knowledge made the quest for the Golden Fleece possible, this I recognise. However, such an intellect is too great a weapon for a mind so full of cold rage, such immoral cunning. She has the greatest potential but with such a powerful and beautiful mind, comes a great self-absorption and now such terrible waste - there is no outlet for such extraordinary gifts and this reduced field for these talents has made her a monster. She is superior to all minds she has encountered, has never lost a battle of wits but this mind is greatly damaged by such overpowering emotions and passions. She is infuriated when ridiculed by fools, is feared and despised when she should be praised and admired, how the stupid so fervently hate the clever, how intellect is disgusting within the mind of a woman her cleverness allows her to exact the revenge others only dream of and is the mistress of manipulation - her powers in this deceit most destructive. She has used this against friends and enemies alike. She is ever aflow with the extremes of emotion that undo for with such violent degrees of passion and fury, without mercy or reason. These emotions themselves are filled with the black stain of corruption and are raw vices. Ultimately, I decree that her genius, denied an empire to build has been tainted by bitter feelings and wasted upon the less prestigious playing field of personal waste. Though her emotions are at times noble in nature, they are more corrosive than not and too dangerous coupled with such degrees of intelligence. It makes her mind unsound. Her mind is now corrupt and deceitful, it does not excuse her actions but only adds to their bloody taint; unworthy of divine favour to a peaceful afterlife."  
  
The speech had struck a nerve deep within the soul of Medea, and it hurt. For it was so very true, but untrue all at the same time! She had greatly suffered oppression and indignities as well as the hate of her peers for having such formidable intellect but to say her emotions - that which made her herself! - made it unworthy screeched of tyranny against her womanly sex alone. Her lip quivered with rage; to scorn her like so many others had for her great mind! She though that one of The Judges would admire her intellect rather than analyse it to nothing more than genius ruined by a womanly heart! Her mind was her most redeeming feature! Now she knew she was lost, but cared not, not for the favour of those so like the fools that scorned her powers and talents. They could rot along with her mortal body for all she cared. If Tartarus was to be her new abode for all eternity then at least her spirit would not suffer the indignity of being broken by the sincere Judges!  
  
"You are troubled and your spirit rages with hate." Medea glanced up sharply at the low of Persephone's sweet, musical voice, knowing that the Spring Goddess had sensed her vicious turn of thought.  
  
"The Judges are wise but they do not understand." She replied respectfully but with a mournful coldness - never again would she see her beloved sons - her eyes blazing with defiance.  
  
"Are you afraid?" Persephone asked innocently, her voice like the caress of a soft breeze against gentle spring flowers.  
  
"Judge me with fairness due, as I know you shall, and I will accept my fate with pride and gratitude."  
  
"Why do you think I am here?" she asked with a wickedly childish glimmer in her deep green eyes "For I only appear when the judgement is difficult and both sides are balanced. I am to aid my husband in the final decision. Speak, Judge! For the hope you offer has not yet passed your lips!"  
  
The final Judge, standing between his two brothers spoke devoid of emotion as those before him "I have touched upon the heart of the Lady of Sorrows and must move against the decision of my fair brothers. Though her emotions betray a nature most aggressive and damaging, her violent heart's feelings are pure - pure passion, pure rage. They are innocent. She is dictated by her constant heart, by her love and passion. Enduring love for the champion of the Golden Fleece aided him in his most noble quest and her passion provoked her violence. Her love was strong and true, her revenge just, the destruction of her actions nothing compared to the ruin of her broken heart, wrought by faithless Jason. Though passion has it's dark side - possessiveness, jealousy, from which love can easily become hate, it is not by her own hand. The hand of a woman in love with her husband, wishing for the happiness and security of a beloved family. She is the true champion of the Golden Fleece and worthy of many things despite the betrayal of her father's domain; through following the course of her love. Yet it proved to be in vain, through arrogant Jason's roving eye and keen self-interest. I see the sorrow that grieves her - the love for Jason, her equally strong hate for him, the desire for all to be right once more, the longing for happiness, the grief for her children that haunts her daily. This is a woman I see, subordinated by hypocrites as though she owed them, she is the other, the unknown and despised in the shame of unjust exile, abandoned. She is a woman, no role-model, surely but more so than any innocent, virginal heroine. Brothers, I have gazed deeply within the true heart of Medea, Lady of Sorrows and have discovered a ruined treasure, but still precious. She is a real woman who has suffered and become twisted by her suffering. To lose her to the torments of Tartarus shall render our own hearts all the poorer and blacken them with the corrosive stain of poor judgement. See her proud, dreaming, enriched and eroded heart. See Medea. She is most worthy, Lord Hades, flawed beyond repair but strong and passionate and most worthy of divine favour and peace in death at least."  
  
Her heart swelled. It brought back the rage of Jason's adultery and wish for a younger, pretty bride without intelligence. It brought back the despair, the hate, the conflict between love and hate coupled with a need for revenge. . . She stared on, feeling her expressive heart fill but not spill onto the emotions of her beautiful face, not to agonise it with torment. But bit by bit, the passion of her nature stealthily returned from the hollow within her wounded spirit. She had been so long alone. Now the chance to feel once more, to be the great woman she once was, no matter the pain it caused her was something she craved for deeply.  
  
"God and Goddess, King and Queen of our grim realm; take our words and reach a decision worthy of the Lady of Sorrows from our wise and sincere judgement for such a case is too balanced. Your divine influence is more appropriate for this conclusion." The Judges spoke in unison once more, voices flat and monotonous, before turning to her crimson-clad figure of their judgement and saying, "Fare thee well, Medea. May your soul receive its dues; for good or evil. Our hopes for your redemption and peace have taken wing!" and with that they vanished in a flurry of coiling, choking smoke.  
  
Hades, Lord of the Underworld shifted slightly in his stone throne and gazed at Medea, this intriguing mortal of contrasts and passions, good and evil, with interest. "What say you, Medea?" his majestic voice flowed like honey through the obsidian chamber.  
  
Medea straightened herself tall and proud, gathering the fire of her soul for the bonfire that would declare to all what manner of creature she truly was. This was her hour. "May I make one request, my Lord most-holy?" she said with reverence.  
  
"Speak your request, Lady of Sorrows." He replied, not without coldness.  
  
"May I request the presence of your most revered and honoured family of the divine blood immortal? To be heard truly, from the hand, mind and heart I wish to have all that may understand. I understand that my masters and mistresses are not to be called upon a whim but I wish to speak to the greatest audience of most understanding deities."  
  
The God of Dead's brow furrowed slightly at her request and looked upon the serene face of his gentle Queen. Finally he relented "Very well, as many have taken an interest in your tale."  
  
Out of the darkness of the chamber, the shadows burst into glorious light to reveal several figures of brightness emerging from the whispering shadows. Firstly, Zeus and Hera in all the gold-shod glory of their luminescence. Next, Aphrodite clad in the thin, seductive gown of love, her golden hair flowing with infinite grave and caressing her ripe body's curves and breasts, her eyes sweet and wicked eyes carved from sapphires and adorned with frail diamonds. Following closely was her beloved paramour Ares in bloodstained armour, donning the glory of war like his face of rugged handsome looks. Fourth, emerged fully-armed Athena, favoured daughter of Zeus, her shoulders caressed by the shadows, proudly wearing mature, intelligent loveliness as she wore the wisdom in her stormy grey eyes. Last but not least, followed Demeter, Goddess of the Grain and grieving mother to sweet Persephone. Garbed in muted green, no longer blazing from the sadness in her heart her maternal face lit with joy as she embraced her lovely daughter in a crushing embrace, her chestnut hair flying and earth-brown eyes afire with love.  
  
After all were assembled and still, their interest peaked by the beautiful and horrific Medea in the crimson gown of death. Some watched with admiration, others with disgust, and all with interest; all drawn fatally in. she was magnificent and glorious as the end of the world.  
  
She spoke, her strong, flexible and moving voice burning with passion, weaving its magic, this time without an ulterior desire to manipulate but to empty her great heart, but not without her characteristic streak of ruthlessness, a greedy ruthlessness to be understood.  
  
"I thank you all greatly for honouring my judgement without your presence's, I am and have always been your most devoted an humble servant. I come neither to plead for mercy, nor show your divine stations any disrespect in my bitterness, shift blame nor to attempt to claim any moral high ground. I ask only of your ears, to hear my testament. My crimes were actions condoned by my conscience; my own free will was the striking hand. My passions have given me all and taken all from my desperate grasp. In my grief, loss and fury I have cursed me children, threatened my innocent servants, wished the house to fall down and have been torn between a desire to kill the princess of Corinth, kill Jason and even to kill myself, at times. I have hated all three of us without reserve and with all of my burning heart and I am without shame still for I have loved with all my heart.  
  
"You committed a crime against a warrior and hero of the blood!" was the first mad cry from the lips of Ares.  
  
"Jason was a hollow shell of a hero, with all respect great God of War, splendid in victory, but my husband crossed the line between pride and arrogance. His treachery earth-shaking, his reasons feeble, his arguments flimsy, his manner patronising. Gone was the man I once loved, replaced by this. . .parody! Such a shallow, dominant creature of such narrow views without thanks of faithfulness is no hero."  
  
"And what makes a hero?" Athena mused.  
  
"A hero represents hope, wise Athena, the champion of the Golden Fleece was ruled by self-interest."  
  
"And what of the man you loved?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at how astute Medea's answer had been.  
  
"It was all the world." She replied, then turned to golden Aphrodite "Sweet Aphrodite, Goddess of Love, Queen of Hearts, Patron of Passion, Lady of Devotion - was it by your designs that I came to love him so? I remember my maidenly days within my own land, ruled by my father, the man who cut my love, preferring a son. I lived a solitary and content life, left to my own devices, surrounded by written word as my sole companion, my only nurturing friend scrolls of sorcery. I forsook my father's intended suitors for my hand as I had no interest in the life of wedded women. Scrolls were my lovers then and I'd always loved my magic arts more than any man until I met my Jason. Of all the heroes gracing our rural shores, it was he who caught my eye; his bronzed, strong, muscled body, alive to the fingertips with the energy of youth, clad in a close-fitting leather tunic and a leopard skin. His smile was radiant, welcoming and warm, his appearance rugged and somewhat wild without being unkempt, his deep brown eyes adventurous and loving and his ebony hair as beautiful as mine! He dazzled me that day. My most merciful Lord Hades; did you not feel the same thing upon meeting your sweet and gentle Persephone, most revered Daughter of the Harvest? Did you not feel the same sharp twinge deep within your heart that left you forever changed with such longing and enduring love? I feel love's rapture claim my heart and tighten its blissful stranglehold upon my being as I began to know more of my champion, know of his life, his quest, his character. His hopes, his dreams, his fears. . .  
  
"I begged my father to allow Jason the Golden Fleece of legend, in exchange for my hand in marriage but his narrow mind was in a murderous fury. Through my sharp warning of custom and law he did not slay Jason and his crew that very day! I followed my heart, for he enchanted me and I longed for him, I felt his growing love for me and wished for nothing more. So I became a conspirator and followed the powerful command of my passionate heart, deep in the throes of love. I betrayed my father and line and murdered my dear but foolish brother for the sake of love, my protective instinct, as well as aiding in the quest many a time. Yes, they were crimes but they seemed worth all for Jason, the man who swore by all the Gods of Olympus to remain faithful to me. For who can resist Aphrodite's charm of love when she comes to call? Beautiful Goddess, please tell me - does Jason owe his life to you or I as he once told me?" her voice trailed off desperately, recalling one of her final, powerful confrontations with Jason.  
  
"You my child, my devoted follower, no other. I guide the direction of the heart but it is you who must follow its course and choose such paths," the Goddess of Love replied with sympathy "I admire your tough spirit and your flair for love, your refusal to give in, I must say, passionate and brave Medea. Fret not - those who follow their hearts will find happiness in the end." She said with proud sincerity, ignoring the amused glances from some deities around her.  
  
Medea bowed her head in gratitude "Thank you, my most honoured patron of Love and Passion. I gave up all for my love for Jason, stained my soul with treachery and my hands with my brother's blood, shaming my family and land, I became an exile for him. All I did was because I wished his happiness and success, even my murder of his foul and gullible uncle was all for him, as he well knew. I did it all for him. I adored him so much it hurt once. I married him, allowed him to take my maidenly virtue and have martial congress of my devoted body as he wished in encounters of such burning rapture I could not describe! I was loving, dutiful, faithful and sharing; providing comfort, love, advice, encouragement and intelligent discourse. I had even fulfilled the most painful and humiliating task of a wife by giving birth to his children. Both healthy sons, how could be wish to end our marriage? He had no reason for complaint! His treachery ruined me and broke my heart; I loved and hated him so much I wished for the world to end! And the cold, unfeeling look in his eyes as he regarded me during our heated arguments cut me deeper than any oath of hatred he could utter. I was devastated, my soul torn apart, abandoned and forgotten. I envisioned myself alone and unloved, as I would be - and have indeed been. And still he was all I longed for, my one dream, my one true hate."  
  
"Why did you not endure? You are not the first woman to have suffered an unfaithful husband?" Hera muttered with cynical bitterness, cutting the air like a dagger.  
  
"Women have forever endured, your divine luminescence, they are forever subjected to men and oppressed by the bonds of marriage. Men bear arms whilst women bear children and these duties are not treated as equal and we women have suffered - women, though creatures that can think and feel, must endure terrible indignities. Marriage is necessary, and with marriage comes servitude. And though men are free to indulge their appetites and enjoy the company of their friends, women must remain in the house and live for their husbands alone. We are condemned to being subjected to the yoke of their rule, their rule of fist. Goddess of War and Wisdom, were you - a pure, maiden goddess - not intruded upon by leering hunters? And did you not suffer having your wisdom work against you when you wished for the Golden Apple of Eris? For your knowledge, you were forgotten as a woman, as it is despised by men. It is better to be born a fool, for the clever are hated, women even more so. You understand the oppression of the intelligent, do you not?"  
  
"I do, Lady of Sorrows," she replied sadly "but do not think to manipulate me with this."  
  
"I seek not to manipulate my most beloved Gods and Goddesses but I instead crave to be understood. To have my frustrations understood! My failings! My secret sorrows! For I was loved by Jason, and there is nothing like being loved and worshipped as the keeper of his heart then being forsaken for another, it is like all light and colour vanishing from the world. It is not a thing one can endure, it is not a thing one can escape from without being shattered. And to be exiled! Cast out, alone! Most gentle Persephone, Daughter of the Harvest; it was like being stolen from sunshine's warmth and your mother's love to this great and sombre domain, as you were, only without the hope of the redeeming power of love. And have we all not known lust for revenge, that terrible and seductive thirst? Do you not understand the great need within me, divine Lady of All, Hera? Glorious Ares, God of War, did you not gore Adonis in the jealousy of a lover?"  
  
"Dare you accuse us?!" Zeus raged, his voice thundering.  
  
Medea did not flinch, though she showed greatest respect "Nay oh great Zeus, Mighty Overlord of All, I revere all my deities and will love and respect you as your servant for all eternity. But I dare to challenge you, I dare to defy for to enrage you, I breed understanding within your hearts. I would never dare show disrespect or disregard but I wish you to understand my heart, my mortal heart and all its human passions. I defy and rebel from devotion and with always with reverence, never meaning to tread wrongly. Forgive me."  
  
An offhand nod, and temporary forgiveness was hers and her courage and raw spirit admired.  
  
Demeter spoke, incredulous "Yet you would slay your own children!" she cried in anger.  
  
"And my heart regrets and cries bitter tears every day. If I am forgiven of my every crime I still will never forgive myself for such a deed, even if it was to save them from Corinth's vengeful hand."  
  
"It is hypocrisy. In your lies to Jason you gave the impression of being willing to sacrifice all for their safety in Jason's care yet in reality would kill them for the sake of revenge." She replied coldly  
  
"I have seen hypocrisy, most maternal Goddess of Grain and it has taken the form of the vile King of Corinth himself; the man, who in seeing his daughter a skinless, charred corpse, dead from agony and suffering, burning everywhere in a bitter blaze of glory on her wedding day. He held her weeping, begging to die with her, and crying insincere tears of grief. But hypocrisy must be paid for and the price is usually high and bloody. The irony is that in holding her in such a tight - false - embrace of paternal love, the deadly poison of the dress spread to him and he died with her, begging for mercy, for life in writhing, flaming agony."  
  
A dark chuckle escaped the lips of some of the more amused deities in the shadowed chamber.  
  
Hera spoke up once more "The poison dress you designed."  
  
Medea met her accusing gaze courageously and with blazing pride streaking through her, strong and tangible "Yes, and I have no shame. I followed my passion; my rage against this shallow princess, my desire to avenge myself and thwart Jason's own desires for a life of royalty and marriage. I hated them and wished nothing more than to destroy them, to leave my mark forever, vowing that no man would ever again wrong me and live to tell about it. I wished to avenge my broken heart, humiliated soul and damaged pride."  
  
"And your heart?" Aphrodite asked.  
  
"My heart is dead within me, broken, its grave danced upon by cruelties and indignities at being at the mercy of those less clever than I and now knowing the pain of betrayal. I wished him dead but I still loved him through all the hate. I left my love behind in the smouldering ashes of a perfect revenge, leaving with the corpses of my children. I am no villain, nor heroine, nor will ever claim to be more than Medea, the Lady of Sorrows - bitter, angry, clever, ruthless, loving and lonely. Please, masters and mistresses most-holy and mighty; judge me now that my heart is measured."  
  
Zeus walked forward proudly "My brother and his Persephone, born of sister Demeter, knows our thoughts. A well-fought escapade, Medea, well-fought indeed." He said, amused at the intensity of the raging fires within this nonsensical mortal, her tough spirit. All the deities nodded in passing respect and faded back, into the embrace of dark walls until nothing stared back but stone. Medea still stood proudly. The King and Queen of the Underworld gazed at her with sympathy and with a gentle happiness. Was her fate to be a happy one? Either way, she had been glorious and would now go down in a blaze of glory.  
  
Hades and Persephone exchanged a glance. "Have you news of Jason?" Persephone ventured with sympathy.  
  
Medea, surprised by the topic, shook her head "Nay my lady, only that fateful day when I foresaw that he would die a humiliating death."  
  
Suddenly she was confronted by a vision born of shadow - of that much loved and hated rugged face of easy charm, haggard with misery and loss, bronzed skin pale with sorrow, his dark hair's finery fading as his youthful exuberance had. Jason. She saw him, defeated and alone, throw a rope over the blessed wooden prow of the mighty Argo, death in his eyes. Medea's smouldering eyes widened in disbelief. But as he attempted with his large, manly hands to fashion a hangman's knot the rotten wood fell through the broken sky, tumbling ever-downwards upon its former master, muttering 'By all the Gods of Olympus. . ." before cocking his head upwards in horror of his ultimate defeat and awakening with his hand clasped in the cold hand of Thanatos.  
  
Medea did not know whether to laugh or cry. She felt both the satisfying joy of gratification and a numb sadness and strange, abstract sense of loss. She felt the shadows reach for her and pull her forward through death's eye once more. Through the mists, cold and into a land of ever- expanding horizons, blissful shades, pristine meadows, delicate blossoms, proud trees and graceful rivers, laughter and peace becoming the atmosphere itself. The Elysian Fields. Medea felt that longed-for peace and joy begin to fill her lonely spirit; so she had received divine favour and awarded and joyful afterlife. She sighed with heartily warmth at her happy home, allowing passions, intellect and equality. For a moment she lost herself, abandoning herself to a peaceful wave a warmth. Where Jason was did not press on her mind, though resolve drew her with redeeming appeal. There were far more important things than he she thought as she walked on proudly with happiness anew through the sea of wildflowers as she wandered searching for her beloved children. For forgiveness.  
  
*THE END* 


End file.
